Scott Capurro

That was not my intention in writing and I would ask that you would remove it.

Thank you,
Valia

When will she learn? The more you say or write, the more I’ll print, and the worse – or better, from my perspective – it gets.
If you have something to say, then stand by it. I’ve no problem with that, although I prefer ideas to feelings. However, for fucksake, if her ‘feelings’ mean that much to her, then she should be glad I’ve shared them with whomever gives a shit. Not that you do,
gentle reader, but it is fun to witness a minor melt down in action, right?

She and her 3 mates were 30 minutes late actually, and, internally, I dealt with that. We’re all stupid sometimes. But the chatter got up my nose, so I handled it, and her husband and the other spouse just stared at me, as menacingly as they could. I finally went back to them near the end of my set, and they seemed alright, but then persian men will flirt with anyone.
I’d forgotten they ever existed (of course) but when I got this, I laughed and laughed. You’ll see why. Especially around the black people stuff. I don’t talk about the floods in New Orleans that way, but now that she’s written I do, I think I might. It’s funny. Although why she’s funny she doesn’t understand. Really she lacks an intellectual grasp of, well, anything. And one wonders, why on this Christian Earth did they leave the house? Or go to live comedy? Or for that matter, come to see ME???
She’s attempting restraint, which I admire, especially in religious extremists, but we all know she’s just dying to call me a faggot. Or whatever disparaging word her people use. Something with spit and anger involved I’m sure, but then that’s the final irony, because again, middle eastern men prefer the company of men. In every way. Wonder what their word is for that. Her husband was hot, and he winked at me on his way out of the club. So maybe someday soon, I’ll hear the word, whispered in my ear. Praise Allah.

Good Afternoon Mr. Capurro,

I am not sure if you will remember me, but I was the “Iraqi” who showed up late to the 9:00 show on Saturday night with three “Iranians” (one of which was actually Afghani, go figure). We sat at the table to the left of the stage from your vantage point.

I guess I will start with the beginning. You “greeted” us by calling one of our friends a hooker as soon as we walked in, I am assuming you did this because she was talking, since you followed it by telling her to “shut the **** up”, and I just found that to be rather uncouth.

I was alright through most of your routine, even by making an assumption that we were terrorists, and wondering what we were doing to cause our late arrival. That was funny.

The other thing that was upsetting to me is that you apparently do not study the things you talk about. You kept on calling Iraq a sh**hole and saying it always was, but that just isn’t true. Before the gulf war, Iraq had a bustling economy… and it was actually more “westernized” than what you seemed to think. My mom did her undergrad there, and her college photos don’t look too different from her classmates at UCSF medical school who studied their undergrad in and around San Francisco.

Also, for the Muslims in the audience misrepresenting their holy word and using their holy book when you run out of toilet paper was really disrespectful. I really don’t know what else to say about this, because it just made my jaw drop.

In general, my husband Fred and I are not offended by comedians, because we understand what they are saying is all in good fun. Some of our favorite comics certainly use a lot of crass humor. But even he, who is way more easygoing than I, felt pretty uncomfortable at your show… and it wasn’t only the middle eastern issues that were disturbing. When you started talking about the black hurricane Katrina victims floating in the water face down, I was ready to walk out. Those people didn’t die solely because they didn’t know how to swim… they died because there was no one there to help them.

I think there are comedians who know how to make terrible things funny, and then there are people who try to make fun of terrible things and end up not accomplishing their goal.

I haven’t researched your name at all to know what type of audience you attract, but I can assure you, if you stay within that second group, your act will not grow to allow you to do more profitable things.

Lastly, I could have come at you in the same profanity-laden way you delivered your insults, and I didn’t. I only hope if you respond, you will honor that respect, by showing it as well.

Thank you,
Valia

Why do audiences take themselves so seriously? I could understand if we were trapped at the National Theatre watching Bosnians burying babies, but for fucksake this is comedy and I’m a dick joke teller. It even said ‘comedy’ on the wall behind the stage. Are these seated cunts illiterate? Or just unimpressed? My arm hurt for two weeks.

GT July 2008
Scott Capurro

NEWS FLASH: I’ve discovered a boundary! Usually I value free conversation, like free trade, and I’m capable of at least comically bull-shitting my way through most subjects. Who knew I’d hit a wall in Belsize Park?

Admittedly I was stressed. I’ve returned to the legitimate (my mother’s word) theatre, and that day, I’d dropped my pants twice, in both a matinee and an evening performance of Fucking Men in Earl’s Court. At 9 pm, I rushed to Chalk Farm tube so I could stumble, exhausted, up a slight incline to a posh pub full of checkered shirts and disdain.

Once on stage, I flitted through my impressions of Sheffield homophobes and misogynistic Obama supporters when I noticed that some blond woman had been whispering to her male partner through me ENTIRE act.

Knowing I had a cab waiting to rush me to another gig, I still went to her. I couldn’t help myself, and that’s why I’ll never be content.

“I must punch a lot of your buttons, hon”, note to all: when I say ‘hon’, it’s not good, “cuz for the last 20 minutes you haven’t shut your cunt.”

“You’re boring,” she slurred, in any one of a variety of eastern European accents.

“No, I’m not. I might be annoying, and you’re a lazy, stupid Polish whore who doesn’t get the joke, right?”

“No, you’re just…” I hate redundancy “boring.”

I turned slightly to her male neighbor, and said, “You brought this? Or, sorry, bought this? Have you checked her for worms? Either way, I bet your flat has never been cleaner.”

Then she said, “I don’t have to take this from some fucking queer.”

The room went quiet. But I didn’t.

“Oh, so that’s what this is all about.” I had a glass of water in my hand. Clever me. “I suggest you cool down.” And I pitched the water her way. She was drenched.

But wet or not, the gal could throw, and she quickly retrieved her beer bottle and chucked it my way. I blocked the glass with my arm, now scarred, and my back was soaked with beer.

A battle ensued. The comedy room became a schoolyard, and I was 12. My snotty, sweaty peers were throwing food at me, leaving dissected squids, which made me squeamish, in my parka pockets, telling my girlfriend I was a ‘fag’, poking sticks in my orange, slightly camp bicycle wheel so my bike froze and I flew over the handlebars. The Grouse brothers, both ginger, pinned me down, shouting ‘faggot’ at me as Brian, the taller, spat in my face. I was surrounded, like I used to be in the boy’s toilet, and I felt threatened, but in comedy, I’ve learned to never apologize.

I ran to the window behind her, but I couldn’t open it, because of its fucking 18th century decrepit design, and it must have looked like I planned to toss her out. Actually, I wanted to dump her purse onto the sidewalk two floors below, so she’d have to leave. Instead, I grabbed her black leather and ran back onto the stage. Search it? Unconstitutional. Run with it? I had an act to finish. Which I did, to numbing silence. Some people were walking out, maybe to piss, who knows, and one woman in the front row, dyed black hair and pinched, gave an approving thumbs up to the Pol. Nobody came to my defense.

I know the Brits like to see a fight, especially in a pub, and yes, I’m confrontational, but I was the comic. I was joking, which I’d, almost to the painful point of needling instruction, pointed out. Had I been dark skinned and she’d dropped the n-bomb, the crowd would’ve rioted. However middle class guilt doesn’t extend itself to sexuality.

Obviously gay men are not only the last office joke; we’re also the last people to be openly bullied. Even the homeless get money thrown at them. We get bottles, or worse. And frankly, throw what you like, but don’t call me ‘queer’. That’s my word, our word, like ‘fab’. We’d like that one back too, please.

The show’s host wanted to continue with the evening. I protested, and the lovely barmaid walked the ‘lady’ out, who stared menacingly, as I collected my 80 pounds and dashed off to Crouch End, for more verbal abuse, because the show biz glamour never ends. Luckily, I took the later show much less seriously. And the chatty females played along, flirting, giggling, matching my charm.

Please include:

Scott Capurro will be delving, barking and biting in Scott Capurro Goes Deeper at the Edinburgh Fringe, August 1 – 25, Underbelly Venue, 9:15 pm